


The Moron

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Angst and Humor, Arguing, Banter, Canonical Character Death, Criticism, Dysfunctional Relationships, Fandom Allusions & Cliches & References, Humorous Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, Islands, Kindred Spirits, Loneliness, Men Crying, Socially Awkward House, Stranded, Television Watching, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3161741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson reveals the presence of his kindred spirit and House feels both confused and guilty...though one more than the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moron

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I couldn't resist X'D
> 
>  
> 
> [Illustration for the story here!](http://www.deviantart.com/art/Wilson-177612236) But in case of spoilers you might want to look AFTER you've read the story.

House looked up sharply when Wilson stumbled away from his movie cabinet, the video case in his hands clattering.

“What’s wrong with you?” House asked, deciding it’d be too big a chore to get up despite the hint of concern he felt.

“You own _Castaway_?” Wilson sputtered, whirling toward him with an accusing expression.

“I can’t believe that movie got 7.4 stars out of ten,” House sighed. “Actually, how did it get in my cabinet? You can chuck that.”

Wilson blinked a few times, his gaze shifting between House and the cover of the movie. After a long moment of silence he turned in a direction that was not the way to the trashcan, House noted, but to the television.

“What are you doing?”

“Figure it out,” Wilson answered shortly as he sat next to House and hugged a pillow against his chest.

Glowering at the scene that appeared on the screen, House simmered a bit, wondering if he should get up, but it was surely on purpose that Wilson sat between him and his cane. Deciding that a thorough critique could be a good way to aggravate his friend, House put on a smirk and relaxed into the cushions, nudging the remote on Wilson’s knee. His friend accepted it half-mindedly.

“Y’know, this is exactly like _Lost_ ,” House remarked as he watched Tom Hanks struggle through the plane crash. “Although it was more interesting when there was a miraculously-healed cripple on the plane, along with everyone else. Really, how realistic is it that the _only_ passenger survives?”

“Be _quiet_ , House,” Wilson hissed, thwacking his arm with the remote and popping open the back. The batteries fell out and into the couch somewhere, but to House’s disbelief Wilson didn’t do anything about it. Usually the loose backing on the remote aggravated Wilson to no end, especially when he had to go rummaging around for the batteries. Now he just ignored it?

“Are you sure television isn’t going to rot your brain?” House asked loudly. “You’re going through a drastic personality change as I speak. I might not be friends with you anymore if you stop being your boring self. If you start getting interesting, I’ll admit you as one of my patients—”

“Shut up!” Wilson cried, hugging his pillow and leaning toward the screen as though that could block out the voice of the person next to him. House leaned forward as well, frowning deeply. Anxiety had roughened the edge of Wilson’s profile, along with anticipation. Maybe he should have been paying better attention to the movie, House thought with a touch of anxiety himself. Which scene was next—?

_“Wilson!”_

House jerked, startled by the voice from the TV.

_“Wilson, I’m coming! Wilson!”_

Since the batteries had fallen out of the remote, House couldn’t do anything but gape as the castaway floundered after the volleyball, lugging his heavy raft behind him and still screaming.

_“Wilson! I can’t—”_

As the character hesitated, still clawing for the rope on his life raft, House felt disgust cut into his chest. The moron was choosing something he could probably get again _over_ his friend of so many years? House shifted, pausing when his own hand fell to his pocket where the Vicodin bottle rattled. It was usually a reassuring sound, but now unease was twisting House’s stomach where so much of the bottle’s contents resided.

_“Wilson! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Wilson! I can’t!”_

While he wanted with all his heart to deny it, House could feel a spasm in the back of his throat. He glanced shamefacedly toward the floor as the music swelled mournfully, the character’s cries driving the point home.

_“Wilson! WILSOOON!!”_

Unable to stand anymore, House threw himself quite painfully at the television, hauling the plug out of the wall. The following silence was broken only by quiet sniffling. Wilson was badly hiding his tears behind his hands and then he resorted to the pillow, burying his face in it.

“You’re going to smother yourself,” House said numbly. Wilson gave some broken response that was muffled by the pillow, followed by pitiful sobbing.

House crawled back to the couch and popped a few Vicodin into his mouth. Hurling himself forward only a few feet had been a terrible idea. After swallowing, House uncomfortably settled a hand on Wilson’s back, drumming his fingers a little in what was supposed to be a comforting pat.

“Story of my life,” he admitted at last. “Good metaphor. You could’ve gotten your point across without crying, though.”

Wilson stiffened under his touch, at last sitting up and tugging at his collar shirt as he tried to compose himself. “What’re you talking about?” he mumbled stuffily, running a hand through his hair.

House rolled his eyes, removing his hand so he could cross his arms. “It was obvious: the castaway was me, volleyball was you, raft was Vicodin.”

Wilson turned somewhat to face him, his nose scrunching up in confusion. “House…I was just watching the movie,” he stated weakly.

House sputtered a little, causing surprise and realization to dawn on Wilson’s face. “You thought—You thought I was trying to make a point?” Wilson gasped, a smile creeping onto his face when House glared. “You did! That’s…brilliant!”

Clenching his teeth, House shoved Wilson and half-lifted the couch cushion, snatching up the batteries he saw beneath it and punching them back into the TV remote.

“What’re you doing?” Wilson asked, raising his eyebrows. “It’ll just come back on.”

“I don’t need the TV for this,” House declared.

“You kind of do,” Wilson argued. “It’s a TV remote—”

Almost before Wilson could finish his sentence, House had put the remote back together, only to hurl it onto the coffee table in front of them. It ricocheted and hit the wall, the back snapping off and sending the batteries bouncing away. House released a satisfied breath, but if looks could kill, Wilson would be guilty of his murder.


End file.
